A touch of melancholia

Today I am feeling rather sad. Nothing desperate, just several glitters short of a sparkle. Pensively distracted. A wistful melancholy settling on my soul like low cloud, blocking the wider view. Last night, in the early morning hours where sleep would not come, I swore I could hear my late Mother’s voice singing the old Ella Fitzgerald number ‘Melancholy Baby’ like she did when I was small.

Ma Sticker was a secret Jazz lover, and played piano in a band when she was young. In her unguarded moments, when cares were miles away, I’d often hear her singing softly to herself. Lilting tunes from the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s. Now whenever my way is unclear, I can hear her voice in my head as though she were in the same room. Funny that. She’s been dead almost two years now and still she can reach out and lay hand on my heart.

Always thought Ma would make it to three figures, but in the end she simply threw up her hands and gave up the ghost four months short of her ninety ninth birthday. She’d be a hundred this year, if she’d lived.

Mrs S says I’m suffering from ‘road trip burnout’ and perhaps she’s right. I’m back behind my desk and in need of stimulation. I’m up to date with all my work and perhaps a little ennui has bubbled up between the cracks (again). Perhaps because I’ve recently gone from eighty miles an hour down to twenty and twenty is sooo boring. Maybe I need one of these and some big empty roads to play on. Or some other unfettered adventure perhaps?

At least this July I’m to be spared the tedium of Mrs S’s symposium and it’s appalling vegan cuisine. I get to slob around Vancouver for a couple of days checking out the fleshpots. Maybe I’ll get out of the city and just head West for a couple of nights, stopping and starting as the muse takes me.

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3 thoughts on “A touch of melancholia”

    1. For me Elena it’s not the moon. I’m just caught up thinking of what I need to do now I’ve come to a full stop and need to change direction a little.

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      1. Good on anyone who can. I suppose that there must always be things to do and places to go. But this was never anything that I wanted primarily. I just wanted a home and a hearth. But my life was never going to be like that, for the choices that I made in ignorance.

        Only last week I was telling myself that there must be more to life. But then I have been doing that for the last fifty years, even when I was doing the most amazing things.

        Sometimes enough is never enough. That is the curse of people like me.

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